


How It Feels To Take A Fall

by Nayeliq1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Friendship (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), After the Not-Pocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And the other way around, Angry Crowley (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has Feelings too, Aziraphale talks to God, Aziraphale wants to communicate, Changing POV, Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley mostly wants to get drunk and sleep for a century, First Kiss, Fluff, I mean there are lyrics inbetween, I'm Bad At Tagging, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It's hard to give a plot idea without giving away too much, Kinda, Lots and lots of dialogue, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not-So-Nice-Surprises, Nothings turns out as it should, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Songfic, Tags might change, Things are bad, and just when they think they get what they want, and might be quite SO BAD at them, angry BECAUSE hurt actually, but I'll leave it at that anyway bc I can, but he gets himself together for his angel's sake, but mostly angry AND hurt tbh, but one detail is different, but still, but they get there, but they learn to deal with it, but they work through it, does that make it a song fic?, don't know yet, how on earth did you notice, hurt aziraphale, inspired by Icarus (Bastille), just 6000 Years of Lots of Stuff, just imagine they didn't have to hold hands for the switch ok?, like...it follows the plot of the series, logical details - what's that, lots of Julie and The Phantoms lyrics, maybe smut?, my tags are rubbish anyway, not very good at first, selfless Aziraphale, the Dinner at the Ritz, they don't, you'll have no idea what's going on here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayeliq1/pseuds/Nayeliq1
Summary: This should have been the best moment of Crowley's fucked up millennia lasting life.This should have been a moment of revelation, the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment his dreams finally came true.We just tend to forget that nightmares are dreams, too.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for reading. This fic idea was inspired by a Good Omens animatic on youtube, but as not to give away too much plot and twists, I'll add the link when we got there in the story.  
> I'm quite excited to post this as I've been working on it for quite some time and it's one of my first fic tries with a bit more plot and not just emotional conversation. Don't get me wrong. The conversation is there. Probably too much of it. But at least it's kinda...embedded in something like a plot?
> 
> As always thanks to my lovely betas, if there are still mistakes left we apologise - we're all a bunch of imperfect Germans.
> 
> The title is from Icarus by Bastille.  
> The lyrics in the middle from Perfect Harmony from Julie and The Phantoms. 
> 
> I hope you like it. Comments and kudos are love.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

We've known each other forever-  
I can hardly remember not knowing you  
It's hard to remember the days before you  
I don't even know if there were any

-David Guterson

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

**The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

This should have been the best moment of Crowley's fucked up millennia lasting life.

This should have been a moment of revelation, the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment his dreams finally came true.

We just tend to forget that nightmares are dreams, too.

**Sometime earlier that Day**

"You're staring, dear."

Crowley was startled from his...well, staring, by Aziraphale noticing. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last, either. Was he going to humiliate himself by spending the rest of his life as a damn pinetree in sunglasses, following this angel around like a lovesick puppy just for the pleasure of revelling in his company and watching him eat and smile and drink through dark lenses that would thankfully hide his ridiculous heart eyes?

No.   
Yes.  
Well.  
Ok.  
Damn.

He was smitten. Damn, was he smitten. He was deep, deep in the smit.

Fuck.

They were at the Ritz, the afternoon sun was casting her light through the windows and bathed them both in a warm glow that illuminated the angel's features.

Everything seemed normal. Aziraphale was eating (in an unnecessarily sexual way, might be added), as per usual. Crowley sat next to him, watching under the protection of his dark sunglasses (in a necessarily dreamy way, considering he was looking at Aziraphale), as per usual. 

Not so usual was the fact that they had averted Armageddon mere hours ago, and had broken with their respective Headquarter even fewer hours ago, practically quitting their jobs by escaping their trials. Not so usual was that they sat here as free supernatural beings, discharged of all their former duties, released from all restrictions and free to do as they pleased.

Well. In theory, anyway.

Aziraphale was looking at him, eyebrows raised questioningly, waiting for Crowley's reply. What would have _pleased_ Crowley to do was lunge forward, grab the angel's face and kiss him until he forgot he'd even asked anything. What Crowley did do though was thinking about what to reply, as close to the truth as possible, but without revealing too much. He had experience with that. A lot.

Because he never lied to Aziraphale. Crowley took pride in being quite an honest demon in general, but he'd never ever lied to Aziraphale, _ever_. Correction, he _had_ lied to Aziraphale. Just once. 1862. _I don't need you_ , he'd said. That had been a lie, obviously. Did it even count as one, then? When your lie was so obvious that the other couldn't possibly mistake it for truth? Anyway, so he had lied to Aziraphale _once_. No need to make a habit of it, though.   
(What Crowley skillfully chose to ignore was that there might have been one more exception, one teeny-tiny detail that didn't really matter that much at all. Small matter, insignificant, miniscule. It was just that Crowley had been deeply, undeniably, irrefutably in love with his best friend for...well, let's say the actually-really-not-at-all-that-long period of six thousand years, perhaps. He couldn't even say that he'd sauntered vaguely downwards. Falling in love with Aziraphale had been more like being thrown head-first into a solid wall of bricks. Sudden. Hard. And painful ever since. Not that it was all bad. He rather liked loving Aziraphale. It had been strange at first, confusing, irritating even. A demon was not exactly designed to feel such fuzzy warm things when he looked at...anyone, anything, and certainly not angels. But he'd become rather used to it, having had quite a bit of time to do so, time which his decorative heart had seen fit to use as an opportunity to find out how much deeper it could fall in love with said angel ever day that passed. So no, loving wasn't all that bad - at least not since after the first couple of decades when Crowley had constantly been afraid that feeling those clearly forbidden things might lead to him burning alive from inside out or something similarly dreadful and permanently annihilating. It was more the hiding it that felt surprisingly similar to torture. Good for him that demons tended to be rather used to _that_ , too.)

"Ngk", he said now, because he wouldn't add another lie to the wonderfully short list, and avoiding the truth didn't count. "Was just lost in thoughts." No need to mention those had been decidedly angel-centred thoughts. Thoughts about how to turn No-longer-Heaven-bound-angels into Very-permanently-Crowley-bound angels, to be precise.

"What did you think about?"

"Just the future", he said evasively, continuing his skilful dance around topics that called for a careful approach. "Yours. And mine", he dared to add, jumping over the word _our_ , but Aziraphale seemed to read it in his tone anyway, rewarding Crowley with a rosy blush creeping up his cheeks and a smile spreading across his face as he lowered his eyes back to the dish in front of him.

And there was the feeling again, the one that had been making an appearance on various occasions, too numerous to count, yet to his great embarrassment (and complete lack of resistance), Crowley was sure to remember every single one. It was like a warm bulb of light buzzing in his chest, something nice and bright and beautiful and decidedly undemonic. Something that was as pleasant as it was torturous. Something he had never dared to name for the simple reason that he was painfully aware of what it would sound like. Letters, arranged in the wrong (or right) order, could be something surprisingly dangerous. They formed syllables a demonic tongue would never risk wrapping around, should never care to taste when spoken aloud. Crowley had never been a friend of four-letter words. This one in particular. It was too close to him, too omnipresent, too clingy. He'd known it to be his constant companion over the decades, always there in the back of his mind, trying to claw its way out of the drawer he tried to lock it into, always managing to send its inextinguishable glow through the cracks of its jail. He wouldn't be able to keep it at bay forever. He knew that, too. One more perfectly good reason why the Feeling must remain nameless. Everything else was going to be his ruin. (It probably would be, either way.)

"Oh", said Aziraphale, decidedly concentrated on cutting his sea bass filet. "And what were your concrete thoughts on that, dear boy?" He said it like someone who tried to sound casual, casting a fleeting glance at the demon before hurriedly returning to the food.

"Dunno." Crowley was divided between joy about the angel's barely concealed interest in the matter of _their_ future and the desperate (and tragically unsuccessful) search for something uncompromising to reply. "I guess we can do anything we want." He swallowed, hoping Aziraphale hadn't noticed his throat tightening around the words. Crowley could certainly think of a couple of things he'd want to do...

"I suppose so." The angel took another bite and closed his eyes, humming around the fork. Crowley swallowed _again_ even though he wasn't eating anything, his throat unnaturally dry.

"How about a walk through St. James's Park once you've finished?", he suggested in order to gather himself. (Pathetic, really. After all this time, one would think he'd learned to get his shit together. To his defence, the sexiness of Aziraphale's eating _was_ slightly uncalled for.) The angel smiled at him again and Crowley's stupid heart jumped in his chest.

"Not very foresighted plans", Aziraphale smiled fondly, softening the hint of a teasing sparkle in his eyes. "But that sure would be lovely, dear."

Good. A walk in the Park. That was good. Well-known territory, so to speak (literally and figuratively speaking). He could work with that. The air would help him calm down and he liked visiting the ducks. Normal stuff they did. Normal friendship stuff. Normal Crowley-and-Aziraphale-stuff. Maybe he would accidentally drown one again to make Aziraphale smile when he let it pop back up. Maybe he would even accidentally brush their fingers together while they walked. Maybe.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

We say we're friends

We play pretend

You're more to me

We're everything

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

The world seemed to be against him today. He'd counted on the air outside to clear his head, rip him out of the pathetically soppy daze he'd been captured in over dinner (nothing unusual, although it had felt slightly different today, more intense, more meaningful, _more_ \- because for the first time, dreams of the future might actually _have_ a future). He would have no problem keeping up the cool and indifferent facade he knew to radiate so very well, he told himself (you know, like a liar). No one would notice that underneath, he was slowly melting away to a puddle of goo with every glance he dared to cast at the angel, _especially not the angel_.

But the evening breeze was warm and soft and lovely and Aziraphale was warm and soft and lovely and the air smelled like leaves and growth and _life_ and Aziraphale's hair looked white and soft like a marshmallow and- _stop it, Crowley, you're losing it_. Thank someone the Bentley was parked around the next corner, otherwise, someone would probably have had to mop him up before they got there.

"Ride home?", he asked as the relieving sight of his beloved car finally came into view. Aziraphale graced him with a smile and Crowley growled at something inside him that wanted to coo.

"Thank you, dear."

Crowley had thought the drive home (he wouldn't think too hard on the meaning of that terminology, no, he wouldn't) would _finally_ do the trick and bring him back to his senses, but found that everything was distracting today. He couldn't focus on the road, and that he knew he didn't actually have to was no help, either - the Bentley would navigate them safely through the crowded streets of Central London at the truly unholy speed of 90 MPH for sure - she wouldn't dare to get a scratch, not if she knew what was good for her. And Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat with his hands neatly folded in front of his belly. How was a demon supposed to think about anything but how much he wanted his own hand to be threaded with those angelic fingers? The cream-coloured coat was tightly wrapped around his shoulders, falling open at the front, and Crowley remembered the way it had swayed gently against Aziraphale's softly curved body when they walked side by side through the park. How was he supposed to think about anything but how much he wanted that coat off? (Along with pretty much everything else?)

Far too soon and also not soon enough, the Bentley came to a halt in the parking space directly in front of A.Z. Fell & Co. that was always miraculously empty when it needed to be.

Aziraphale didn't move immediately, contemplating if he could dare to invite the demon into the bookshop for a glass of wine. (Or a bottle. Or fifteen.) He wasn't really afraid that Crowley would decline (he hardly ever did, and the angel skilfully ignored the surge of smug pride it ignited), but they had spent the whole day together - from the relieved meeting on a bench in St. James', still wearing each other's body, over dinner at the Ritz and the following wonderful but taxing walk to the Bentley - they seemed hardly able to let the other out of sight (and all the more keen not to let it show). They could not be blamed, after everything that had happened during the last couple of hours, especially after _nothing at all_ had happened in the 6000 years prior. But they were still _them_. They didn't do...things. They didn't just...be friends. Or whatever. Or maybe they did, but they never said it. They never showed it. They never _asked_ for it. Aziraphale didn't want to appear greedy - not a good look on an angel, whatsoever.

But Aziraphale had never been particularly good at denying himself things, usually. He liked to indulge, he liked to savour. Yet, he had become an expert in denying himself the one thing he had always wanted the most. Perhaps that was why he started to search pleasure in the taste of sushi and crème brulée, the feeling of smooth cashmere and fluffy cushions. He couldn't taste and touch _him_ , so he found replacements, replacements that would never measure up, but helped him to stay sane, helped not to lose control every time Crowley lay sprawled across his sofa, every time he rolled up his sleeves, every time he took off his glasses, every time his shirt moved when he walked to reveal a stripe of smooth skin and a shadow in the juncture of his hipbone. Aziraphale silently patted himself on the back for not jumping at the demon as soon as he moved or smiled, quite proud of his self-restraint when all he wanted was begging for permission to look and touch - and judged by the gazes of passing humans, he wasn't the only one. He could hardly blame them (or himself, really), with Crowley sauntering down London's streets like sex on a stick, from the sway of his slinky hips to the roots of his red hair attractive in a way that should surely be illegal in several states. Not that there was a written rule about it anywhere or something, _Thou Shalt Not Have Warm And Fussy Feelings For Demons_ (no matter how gorgeous they look in black). It was more like a universally acknowledged truth that anything alike was unthinkable anyway, therefore must not be spoked about, written down or even thought of. Good for Aziraphale, for if there had been, they would have had to make an addition, just for him: _But Thou Art Going To Anyway._

Oh bugger, he'd been lost in thoughts. How long was he sitting there, parked in front of the shop without any sign he was going to get out of the car? Five minutes? Ten? Too long.   
He'd really preoccupied Crowley's time, patience and good will enough (at least for today). He shouldn't ask for more. He shouldn't even _want_ more in the first place. He felt his cheeks heat up as he opened his mouth to bid Crowley farewell, perhaps ask if he would like to come around tomorrow if he felt especially daring, but the demon got ahead of him.

"Nightcap?", he asked, eyeing Aziraphale's profile with raised eyebrows (and oh, was that hope on his face? No, why should it, probably just expectation for his answer.) "I could miracle some really nice Chateau Neuf I've stored back at my flat."

"Oh, I'd like that. Even though you don't have to tempt me with wine, dear", the angel added, unsure where the sudden surge of boldness came from. "The pleasure of your company is temptation enough."

 _(Then let me tempt you_ , Crowley wanted to say. _Let me be with you every day, just like this. Let me indulge you, let me give you everything you want, everything you could wish for. Let me love you, please, please, please just..)_

"Ngk", was what he said instead, far less eloquent, also far less dangerous. 

It got another smile out of the angel, anyway.


	2. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I was planning on posting this in like...a week, but turns out I'm just unable to control myself.  
> Guess that means you'll just have to wait longer once we get to the chapters I haven't finished yet.  
> Anyway, here we go. Let's find out what it might be that causes an unexpected complication for our two idiots, shall we?
> 
> Thanks to my betas, they read this a long time ago, I hope I didn't work on it and mess it up again afterwards...
> 
> Lyrics are from "Wake Up" from Julie and The Phantoms

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Wake up, wake up, if it's all you do - Look out, look inside of you 

It's not what you lost, it's what you'll gain - Raising your voice to the rain

Wake up your dream and make it true - Look out, look inside of you

It's not what you lost, relight that spark - Time to come out of the dark

Wake up

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

A couple of hours, some bottles of wine, an enormous amount of conversation and laughter, and an even more extraordinary amount of secretly-not-so-secret secret pining and longing later, Crowley lay sprawled across his usual spot on the sofa, comfortably crouched in the cushion that had memorised his shape like a baking tin. Aziraphale (after approximately two and a half hours and precisely three bottles of wine) had also exchanged his position in the usual armchair for a place at the other end of the couch and sat next to Crowley now, his side leaned against the backrest, his knees drawn up to his chest, a wine bottle in his hand (they had long abandoned those ridiculously small glasses), laughing happily about something the demon had just said.

Crowley couldn't even remember what it had been. He was transfixed, mesmerised. His cheeks hurt from laughing, but he couldn't keep the smile away that was plastered on his face for all the world, not with the angel's warm toes (wrapped up in thick, comfy, woolly socks) nestled under his own feet, not with the angel's contagious laugh in his ears, not with the adorable rosy flush painting the angel's cheeks, nose and neck. He looked at him, at this picture of carefree happiness, a state he had hardly ever gotten to see, and smiled.

There had been something strange growing in Crowley's chest for a while now, something he was familiar with, yet couldn't immediately grasp. It seemed to be connected to his human corporation, but then, again, it was not _just_ that. It had to do with a longing he'd felt for centuries, a yearning. It wasn't lust, exactly, yet not too far from it either. It was...it was...

It was just there because he was drunk, that's what it was! Period!

Oh, but why did the angel have to be so...so... _Aziraphale?_ It just wasn't fair.

This cute bastard, this infuriatingly adorable, fussy, more than occasionally bitchy, brilliant (yet so very stupid - though that was really _not_ something Crowley was in any position to judge-) beam of heavenly sunshine!  
(Not a good thought, as it turned out. You are my sunshine started playing very uninvitedly in his drunk head, and Crowley immediately decided that Aziraphale was never to know how dangerously close those lyrics came to reality. _You'll never know, dear, how much I love you_ \- fine. That was just fact. A quite reasonable one, even. But _I dreamed I held you in my arms, when I awoke dear, I was mistaken, and I hung my dead and cr_ \- Nope. Demons didn't cry. Never. So neither had Crowley, obviously. Ever. So _definitely_ not. Sniff.)

Anyway, the thing was, Crowley lo-

"Hey!", he exclaimed embarrassingly loudly in order to quieten his own dangerous thoughts. "Azi- zira...ziraphl.." He trailed off, decided to give it up and his uncoordinated vocal cords a break. "Angel", he lulled instead (the only word he would have managed to speak even without any vocal cords at all), "Angel, I'm gonna so..sob..sobb...nah, that's not-...wait, _sober up_ , that's it!", he said triumphantly, getting the blurry letters before his inner eye into the right order.

He didn't wait for the angel to answer, as soon as one of them decided to get rid of the various states of drunkness they had experienced together over the centuries (they had had time to experiment since alcohol had been _invented_ , after all), the other usually followed his lead. Crowley shuddered as the pleasant warmth and less pleasant dizziness left his body, noting out of the corner of his eye that Aziraphale was indeed doing the same. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the few seconds he needed to miracle the dreadful headache and other effects of a hangover away. When he opened them again his gaze fell on -how else could it be- Aziraphale, and he felt his heart drop in his stomach.

Crowley knew what it was, then. And he was...well. Surprised. Not that it was still there. He had _known_ it would still be there, he had simply hoped beyond hope that it wouldn't. Well, now it _was_ , and he knew _what_ it was, and he was surprised. At the same time, he wasn't surprised at all. It made perfect sense. Everything did suddenly make perfect sense.

He'd seen humans do it before, had even served as a means to entice this want, to get them going, so to speak. But he'd never participated, ever, had always known to avoid it, never thought he'd ever want to. The concept did never particularly appeal to him, just seemed rather wet, messy and probably unhygienic. Now, as he couldn't help his eyes flickering down to Aziraphale's lips, he thought he understood. They looked inviting. Plush and soft, the picture of them making thoughts steal into his head, questions about how they would feel pressed against patches of his skin, how they would move against his own.   
He had considered how it would be to kiss Aziraphale before. He had considered how it would be to do _much more_ than kiss Aziraphale before, he could admit to that, he was a demon, after all. And that was how he justified this indulgence. He was supposed to do that, wasn't he? Thinking inappropriate thoughts, lust after things he couldn't have, being too greedy to give those dreams up, just because he knew it was wrong of him to have them (wrong because Aziraphle wouldn't want him to, wrong because he would hurt Aziraphale if he ever found out, wrong because he should honour his best friend's privacy and wishes). But he didn't, because he didn't want to, because he was still a demon, because he was too selfish, because he should be proud he was. (No one had to know about the shame he feelt afterwards, the regret about hurting Aziraphale, even if the angel had no idea he did, the promises he made to himself not to do it again, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep a single one.) He was a demon and he was supposed to do the wrong thing.

This didn't feel wrong though. The thought of kissing Aziraphale right here and right now felt impossibly right, and that was what startled him, what made him hesitate. This was not a dream, no fantasy his mind made up in the safe darkness of the night to drive away the loneliness that crept up at him again, one of countless times in his flat. This was real, this was happening, this was out in the open at bright daylight. This was where he couldn't pretend, not in front of Aziraphale, and neither in front of himself. He couldn't pretend to want it for demonic reasons, he couldn't pretend to want it because his nature was programmed for lust and greed and selfishness. He couldn't pretend this was about anything but love. Sinful love, perhaps, consuming, wanting, demanding - but pure at the same time, strong and stubborn, indelible and impossible to deny, grown and flourished through the ages. The kind of love everyone wanted and feared at the same time, the kind poets wrote about even without having ever experienced it, the kind that was utterly, totally, impossibly human, and yet felt holier to him than anything he encountered in his time as an angel.

When Crowley dropped out of his thoughts, Aziraphale was closer. No, _he_ was closer to _Aziraphale_. Had he moved? He had to have moved. He hadn't noticed he had moved, he-

He looked into Aziraphale's wide eyes staring guilelessly back at him - and had to avert his gaze. He was fucking this up. Royally. Nothing had even begun, really, and he could already tell he was fucking it up. He was too much again, too fast, he just couldn't control himself, always pushing boundaries, always reaching for things he had no right to want in the first place. He was steering directly towards safe ruin and all because he couldn't keep his hands to himself (his heart in his chest, his love in its cage).

The feeling of the cushion shifting made his eyes return to Aziraphale's, the angel's brow wrinkled in a mixture of concern and a sort of astounded curiosity. He was suddenly so close, closer than he should have been, closer than he was _supposed_ to be, and Crowley felt his breath hitch in his throat as he watched Aziraphale lifting his hands towards his face. Was he going to touch him? Oh God, Satan, somebody, _please_ , say he was going to touch him. He would probably discorporate if Aziraphale did, but that was worth the risk.

Halfway through, Aziraphale hesitated, his fingers lingered in the air between them, twitching slightly, then stilled. The angel swallowed and Crowley had a hard time not to follow his example.

"Dear", said Aziraphale gently, his hands slowly retreating to his lap again. "Would you take off your glasses? Please."

Now, Crowley _did_ swallow. So, that was what Aziraphale had been about to do. He didn't feel prepared to lose his armour right now, this barrier that guarded all his secrets, but Aziraphale looked so hopeful and Crowley was physically incapable of denying him, anyway. He reached up and grasped the leg of his self-protection, pulling the dark lenses down to reveal huge monstrous eyes he instantly wanted to hide away again, conceal them from the radiant being in front of him. His hand was shaking and the glasses slipped his sweaty grasp to fall on the floor at their feet. Crowley instantly reached down to pick them up, grateful for the distraction, the discreet opportunity to break eye-contact (this strange spell he didn't know how to escape), but before he could reach them, Aziraphale moved.

The angel dropped to his knees in front of him and Crowley froze. He watched in surprised shock as Aziraphale reached out and carefully took the glasses from the carpet, straightened his back and held them out to Crowley, offering them to him with an encouraging smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Seconds went by and Crowley stared. The clock ticked too loudly in its corner of the backroom, the only indicator that time was indeed going by, that they had not just been frozen in place, Aziraphale kneeling on the ground with his hand humbly stretched out, waiting, Crowley hovering above, silent and motionless.

Then the demon blinked. He startled and closed his mouth that had been slightly agape, shaking himself out of his reverie. He had been staring, when time stood still, now he couldn't look down at the angel at all, kneeling before him like he was serving him. Even more, now that the cogwheels in his head were spinning again, he also started to _feel_ , a sudden surge of prickling heat on his leg. He had planned to cast a fleeting glance at it, but couldn't help his eyes lingering there when he did, glued to the place where the heat was the most intense, where his skin tickled with little shocks of electricity - where Aziraphale had placed his hand. It looked almost casual, the way the angel's fingers curled around his thigh, just above the knee. As if this was nothing out of the ordinary, an every-day-occasion, just an insignificant gesture between two beings that did things like this, had done things like this, repeatedly, frequently, always.

But it was not. It was not, and it was all wrong. It was _all_ wrong, the wrong way around. He should be the one worshipping at the angel's feet, he should be the one devoting himself to tending to Aziraphale's every wish, plastering his skin with loving touches if he'd be allowed to.

And at the same time, he shouldn't. Because they _don't_ do this, they _don't_ touch like this - they don't really touch at all, and they never touch like this. There was this thing they were dancing around, getting closer with every careful step, never arriving. It's not something they get to have. Crowley knew. Aziraphale knew. And yet the angel was on his knees in front of him, touching, and Crowley was lost.

He took the glasses, because what else was he supposed to do? He took the glasses because Aziraphale was waiting, because Aziraphale was expecting him to, because Aziraphale got down on his knees for him to take them back. They remained in the space between them, halfway back to their place in front of Crowley's eyes by pure instinct. He wanted to hide again, knew that he couldn't, couldn't if he tried. Aziraphale was smiling happily and he couldn't. He put the glasses on the coffee table instead.

A few seconds later Aziraphale was back next to him on the couch and Crowley felt he could breathe again for the first time in several minutes. This was better. This was still not how it was supposed to be, but it was better. It wasn't how it was supposed to be because Aziraphale was here, not in his favourite armchair. It wasn't how it was supposed to be because Aziraphale chose closeness instead of the usual carefully preserved distance. It wasn't how it was supposed to be because he could still feel Aziraphale's hand where it had been resting on his leg, heavy and _hot_.

 _Too_ hot. Why did it still feel so hot? He had no time to dwell on the question because Aziraphale chose to speak. (Had it been a choice, though? The breath that escaped his lips in form of Crowley's name could just as well have been an entirely involuntary sound.)

"Crowley. Dear, I-..." He tailed off, lost for words, as it seemed, which was ridiculous, Aziraphale was never lost for words (and fairly eloquent ones at that), he was never- he never-

Aziraphale's eyes dropped lower then, his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Crowley watched in fascination, tried to burn the picture into his memory- But the picture moved, leaned in closer and closer still, and before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale had closed the distance (or maybe he had, who knew, who cared) and their lips met.

What followed should have been Heaven. Not the literal Heaven, God forbid, the literary Heaven, the poetic Heaven, the Heaven humans dreamed about and hoped for and used in cheesy metaphors to describe moments of perfection.   
Instead, Hell broke loose. (Not the literal one, either, but you get it.)

There was warmth, then heat, then more heat, until Crowley thought his mouth must have caught fire. They broke apart with a surprised cry of pain and shock, tumbling blindly backwards, away from each other, out of reach.

This should have been the best moment of Crowley's fucked up millennia lasting life.

This should have been a moment of revelation, the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment his dreams finally came true.

We just tend to forget that nightmares are dreams, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food for the comment addiction would be very appreciated!


	3. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I am. I really am. 
> 
> That's all I'm gonna say.
> 
> Lyrics from "Unsaid Emily" from Julie and The Phantoms
> 
> Also thanks to the wonderful Emma Thompson who read the poem "Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye for Emilia Clarke and inspired me to, well...go and nick some verses for this because it was too damn beautiful.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

First things first, we start the scene in reverse

All of the lines rehearsed disappeared from my mind

When things got loud, one of us running out

I should have turned around, but I had too much pride

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

"What the-?" Crowley brought a hand to his lips, palpated the hot flesh, everything suddenly sore and unnaturally swollen.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's eyes were wide with shock and horror when the demon met his gaze. "What happened?" The angel looked just as lost as Crowley felt himself, a flicker of fear underneath the thick blanket of confusion clouding his blue eyes.

"I don't know." But something did happen. "But it wasn't me."

"Me neither! You aren't indicating that _I-"_

"Of course not", Crowley interrupted him quickly, with as calm a voice as the growing feeling of dread in his gut allowed. "But something went definitely wrong."

Aziraphale swallowed, followed the nervous habit of biting his bottom lip - and instantly flinched in pain. The sight made an unwelcome thought manifest itself in Crowley's short-circuited brain. A horrible thought. Yet the only theory he had so far. What if...-

No. _Please_ , no.

"Angel. Give me your hand."

Aziraphale stopped cautiously running a fingertip over his mouth and looked up.

"W-What?"

"Hold out your hand to me."

Aziraphale hesitated for a second, threw a curious glance at the demon, but did as he had been asked to. Crowley took a step forward, determined to test his hypothesis, praying that it wouldn't turn out to be true. (Of course, his prayers had never tended to get answered.) He slowly went to take Aziraphale's hand, felt the usual warm glow the angel's closeness had always emitted, the actually quite pleasant tingling that grew into something resembling little electric shocks. Then his fingers wrapped around the angel's and it took mere seconds before both drove apart with a start.

Crowley hissed in equal surges of pain and frustration.

 _No_ , his mind muttered, pleaded, yelled. _Nonononono._

"No", he said out loud at some point, whispered it into the horrified silence as he mindlessly stared at his own hand, burning red and blistering between his fingers. He had stumbled backwards into a bookshelf without being aware of it, but as he felt his knees give out beneath his weight, he gratefully leaned against it in search for support. His other hand thoughtlessly grabbed something from behind to hold himself upright and slipped, some books tumbling to the ground, but he barely noticed.

Aziraphale did notice, but for once in his life, he didn't care about the irresponsible handling of precious first editions.

"Crowley!" He rushed forward, ignoring the painful pulsing in his own hand as well as the mistreated pieces of his life's work. "Dear, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It was a futile thing to say, neither meaningful nor effective. He wasn't even sure if Crowley heard him, the demon's eyes still locked on his hand in obvious disbelief.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale reached out without thinking (a simple reflex), drew back again before his fingers reached their intended destination (a painful realisation).   
_"Crowley?"_ , he repeated again, eager to do something, helpless to find out what. "Dear, are you alright?"

He scolded himself for that useless set phrase. Of course he wasn't. Neither of them was.

Still, it seemed to rip the demon out of whatever state he'd been captured in - his hand lowered slowly, his head lifted and his eyes focused back on Aziraphale. He blinked as if he were surprised to find the angel there, stared.

"Crowley? Dear?", Aziraphale asked again as the demon showed no sign to break his silence. The worry was seeping from his angelic voice like the tears that threatened to roll down his face. But finally, the demon spoke.

"I-", he pressed out, voice cracking. (But even this small life sign made the angel's features light up momentarily.)

"Yes, dear? Talk to me."

"I..." Crowley swallowed and it looked like a huge effort. "I can't, I-"

 _I can't touch him,_ his head completed the sentence, a mantra it had taken to repeat countless times over the last couple of minutes. _I can't touch him. I can't have what I want, I can't accept this, I can't bear this, I can't do this, I can't, I can't, I can't..._

 _I can't_ _stay_ , his thoughts finally settled on and the angel's shocked, worried face came back into focus. No idea how much time had passed with them standing silently until Crowley found the will to speak and the words to do so.

"I can't, Aziraphale", he repeated the constant chant in his head. "I can't do this."

"...W-What?" The frown on Aziraphale's brow deepened, confusion added to the mixture of emotions. "Crowley, what does that mean?"

"I have to go, angel."

"Go? What do you mean, _go?"_ Of course, Aziraphale already knew, and the look in those yellow eyes he usually loved so much told him he wasn't mistaken. "You-... But..."

"I'm sorry." Crowley turned towards the door and Aziraphale panicked.

"Crowley. Crowley, wait!"

He couldn't let the demon go now, every fibre in his body screamed at him that he couldn't, _mustn't_ , let him leave. Too much had happened in the last couple of days, the last couple of hours, the last couple of minutes - too much had changed, too much, too much.

For one, Aziraphale hadn't ever quite realised how absolutely unbearably lonely he was. He'd spent 6000 years rather enjoying his own company, after all, but then something had happened. He had (temporarily) lost his bookshop - and that one had done the trick. Because suddenly, he'd had nothing. No home to go back to at the end of a day, no books to read for comfort, no familiar tartan armchair, no warmth, no anything. If Crowley hadn't offered him to stay at his place that night, Aziraphale realized that he'd had absolutely nowhere to go. _Nowhere_. After effectively (not temporarily) being excommunicated from Heaven - where was he going to go? He'd probably just have sat there on the bench at the bus-stop, waiting for nothing in particular until some archangel or other came to arrest him. But of course, this wonderful creature that had not only helped him save the world, but also called him his best friend mere hours ago, offered him to stay at his flat. He invited Aziraphale into his home, his safe space. Even in times when the angel hadn't had a roof and four walls of his own, he was never, in fact, homeless.

And Aziraphale had been... _surprised_. He'd been openly and honestly surprised. Because he didn't expect anyone to treat him with kindness, ever, not even Crowley. Not even Crowley, who had shown him nothing but kindness over and over and over again despite it not being in his nature. (Because before you could know what kindness really is, you had to lose things. You had to feel the future dissolve like sand running through your fingers - what you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go before you knew how desolate the landscape could really be. Before you could know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you had to know sorrow as the other deepest thing. And then it was only kindness that made sense anymore, only kindness that became clear as the only thing you had been looking for.) Still, Aziraphale didn't dare to get used to it after it had been given, didn't dare take it for granted, didn't dare rely on the demon in case all would suddenly be over and he would be alone once more, just as he'd always been.

He'd thought it could all finally be different, now. That he wouldn't have to pretend anymore, wouldn't have to pretend that he wanted anything but to spend every possible second of every day in Crowley's company, that he wouldn't have to pretend anymore that he hoped nothing more than that Crowley would want the same. No more secrets. No more hiding. No more loneliness.

But that possibility was about to leave the bookshop and dissolve like all the other daydreams he'd foolishly allowed himself to indulge in over the years.

"Please!" He was begging. He knew. He didn't care in the least. "Please, don't! I know it's- it's not what-" He couldn't say it out loud. They both knew what was wrong (not _why_ , but what). "I can't stand it either, Crowley!", he said instead, the words mirrored in his desperate voice. "It's awful, it's unfair, but we can find a way. We _must!"_ He instinctively reached for the demon's arm in an attempt to stop him from leaving, but the unnatural warmth his hand met through the thin fabric of Crowley's jacket made him pull away in a new almost sickening wave of hurt.  
"Please", he repeated for the umpteenth time, his shaky voice barely above a whisper. "I...I can't lose you."

That made the demon hesitate at last. Thank whoever. His hand had already lingered at the doorknob, but now he stopped in his tracks, slightly turned back towards Aziraphale without letting his hand sink, as if holding onto a safe-rope that could eventually rescue him before he drowned.

"I-" Even in this one word and with seeing only his profile, Aziraphle could easily tell the pain he was in.

"We can still have what we always had", the angel said, aware how weak it sounded even to his own ears, an attempt to persuade them both. "We can still..."He trailed off, searched for words, silver linings at the horizon, found only darkness.

"But that's the thing, isn't it." There was an undertone of bitterness to Crowley's voice Aziraphale didn't like at all. "We can't. _I_ can't."

It wasn't exactly what he said that made Aziraphale feel like the air had been pressed out of his lungs. He'd said it before. It was _how_ he said it. There was a sense of finality to the demon's voice that made its way right into the angel's heart, hard and cold and hopeless. The breath caught in his throat and he could have sworn that his heart missed one or two beats.

"Can't?", Aziraphale echoed finally, a sudden hardness to his voice and the line of his mouth that was totally unfamiliar and just as unbecoming - not of an angel, but this angel in particular. "Or _won't?"_

 _Both_ , thought Crowley. (Not that he said it. He did what he always did. He went in defence mode. And probably fucked it all up further.)

"Oh, don't be such a bastard about this!", he snapped - and could practically watch as the usually so polite and composed angel vanished completely, revealing the Principality Aziraphale, Soldier in the Army of the Lord and Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.

"Me?" The normally calm face was contorted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. _"Me?_ Have you _met yourself?_ I'm just trying to make the best of things and you-"

"The best of things?" There was no way for Crowley but to fight fire with fire right now, letting Aziraphale's anger fuel his own. He wouldn't be able to cope with anything else. Without the anger, there was only pain, and that was so much worse. "Aziraphale, there is no _best of things"_ , he growled between clenched teeth. "There's just awful. Total plain fucking awful and unfair-"

"You think I don't know that?" Aziraphale interrupted him. (It was never a good sign when Aziraphale forgot enough of his manners to start interrupting him.) "Because I do. _Of course I do_ , I'm not an idiot, Crowley!"

"I beg to differ", the demon muttered under his breath. Angels, as he damn well knew, had exceedingly good hearing, but Aziraphale chose to skilfully ignore his remark with an enervated eye roll.

"At least I'm trying _anything at all,_ which is more than can be said about you at the moment", he replied, audibly suppressed frustration in his voice. "Drowning in self-pity is not going to help anyone, Crowley, and you know it! We need-" He searched for words, answers, solutions - found none. "I don't know. But we need to do something. We need to get over this somehow." _We need to get through this together._ "Yet you won't talk to me. That's a non-starter-"

"I have nothing to say to you."

Aziraphale just snorted. He was beyond the stage or disbelief or even hurt.

"You're not being reasonable", he snapped, surprising himself with the harshness.   
"You do realise this is not my fault, yes? Swallow your pride, for Heaven's sake!"

Crowley felt a growl start to form in his throat.  
_I know. Oh, I know it's not your fault. (It's mine.)_  
He stubbornly crossed his arms in front of his chest, stayed in reach of the door, though.

"I'd call it common sense."

"It's pride!" Aziraphale huffed in exasperation. "And it's an admirable quality, until it becomes a wall! I know you're angry, and that's perfectly understandable, but-"

_Goddamn right I am. And I have every right to be._

There might have been a spark of truth to the angel's words, but that knowledge just fueled Crowley's obstinacy. He would _so not_ have any of that logic shit.

"I'm not doing this now, Aziraphale."

"Will you do it eventually, though?"

"Stop pressuring me!"

And suddenly, Crowley was pushing the angel against the door, not quite sure how he happened to be in that compromising situation, not finding it in himself to care. His teeth were bare and he could feel that his fangs had come out. This was one of his worst nightmares, losing control like that with Aziraphale, but the angel stared back at him with qual fire in his eyes, not even flinching as he was securely held in place by his shoulders. Seconds passed and as their emotions cooled down, they could simultaneously feel that heat again, the electric tickling that slowly but steadily grew into a burning pain even through the fabric between Crowley's hands and the angel's skin. But he didn't let go, an invisible force keeping his fingers clenched in the cream-coloured coat and his body leaned forward into Aziraphale's space, keeping him from escaping.

"Are you scared of me now?"

Aziraphale could see that the question had slipped the demon involuntarily. He held Crowley's gaze, the serpentine eyes completely yellow and utterly inhuman (yet still so beautiful). The demon looked at him challengingly, but underneath the surface of his great effort not to show any signs of vulnerability, Aziraphale could see the fear flicker in the sea of gold. It was just a second until Crowley had regained control of himself and his eyes hardened again, but it was more than enough to let the angel melt with affection in return.

It had momentarily occurred to Aziraphale that those Thingsᵀᴹ he certainly shouldn't be feeling for a demon were the result of some sort of temptation. That thought had been dismissed after barely a second, though. Aziraphale just knew it wasn't true. Not that Crowley wouldn't have been able to successfully tempt Aziraphale - he absolutely was, due to his own talents as much as the angel's unfortunate but hardly deniable vulnerability concerning any kinds of small misdeeds and not-so-small indulgences. It was that Aziraphale knew Crowley wouldn't have tried. He'd known it from the beginning, from the moment they met on the Garden Wall, that Crowley was different. He was a demon and good enough at his job, if the whole Original Temptation thing had anything to say about it, but he wasn't dangerous. Something about him told Aziraphale that despite the snaking and the tempting and all the other rather demonic ways of his, he was nothing to be afraid of. Indeed, as the years went by, the mere idea of fearing Crowley became more and more ridiculous. He caused mischief and chaos, spurred humans to bad deeds, but he was never _evil_. Aziraphale couldn't really describe what it had been that first day in Eden, that without knowing him at all, he couldn't help but feel safe. He simply knew that Crowley meant the epitome of safety (and that first impression had proven to be more than correct later, in a cell of the Bastille, in a church during World War II, any time and everywhere). God help him, he simply trusted Crowley. He trusted him more than anyone else, a trust that had always been there, immediately, foolishly perhaps, yet quite borderless. He hadn't even meant to, it was something that just...well, _was._ No conscious decision, simple fact. It had never changed. And he had never had any reason to regret it, either.

"No, dear", he therefore said truthfully with a sad shaking of his head. "I'm scared _for_ you."

That was too much, as it seemed. Crowley's eyes widened, and for the long yet fleeting span of a few heartbeats the world appeared to stand still, Crowley staring, his mouth slightly open, the unrestrained emotion raging behind his eyes, written in every wrinkle on his troubled face.

And then the moment was over. The demon blinked as if awaking from being paralysed, released Aziraphale's lapels and took a step back. 

"I'm sorry that I can't give you what you want, angel." He suddenly sounded very tired, all anger blown out of his face, his eyes matte and lacking their usual spark. "But you must understand...This is worse than anything I ever imagined. It's worse than you rejecting me. If it had just been you not wanting to give more than we already had, I could have lived with that. I would have accepted it..." (He would have accepted it to please Aziraphale, because he would always put the angel's wishes before his own.)

"But this." Aziraphale's heart ached with the sadness seeping from the demon's words, found their meaning mirrored in his own aching heart. He wanted to say something to comfort him (them), opened his mouth, closed it again. Crowley hadn't even noticed, his shoulders sacked, head hung low. "This is... Knowing that you would be willing and yet I can't...I can't get what you have to give (I can't give you what I've wanted to give for centuries), I can't reach you, I still can't...I can't..."

_I'm being denied. Again._

Crowley trailed off, drove a hand over his face (the one he hadn't used to take the angel's earlier), and rubbed his burning eyes.

"I just can't do this", he finally said, meeting Aziraphale's gaze. "Not anymore." (Not _now_ was what he'd meant to say, but the pain of having to do it eventually sealed his lips.)

"Crowley..."

The demon silenced him with a slight shaking of his head. (Aziraphale wouldn't have known what to say anyway.)

"I can't... I just..." _Not yet. I need time._

"But-"

"Angel." There was no power to his voice anymore, he just sounded exhausted. "Please, don't."

Aziraphale could feel the tears welling up in his eyes again, stinging at the corners where they threatened to fall. The same lack of energy had befallen him when the fueling anger vanished, but as Crowley turned back towards the door, he found himself surge forward - a living, breathing wall between the demon and his way out (away, gone for who knew how long).

"Let me go, angel."

The angel looked at him with watery eyes, helpless, pleading, and didn't move. Crowley had to look away.

"Aziraphale. Let me go. Please."

No sound. No word. No movement, either.   
Crowley sighed and waited, too done with everything to bring up the will for another fight now, contemplated instead if he should just take a step forward and try to make his way past Aziraphale. Thankfully, there was the rustling of fabric and the angel stepped aside, opening the way. 

Crowley lost no time.

"Will you come back?", he heard the angel's tear-choked voice just as he turned the doorknob. His head told him to flee, but his feet wouldn't move, glued in place by Aziraphale's distress. So Crowley closed his eyes and hesitated, his forehead leaned against the red-painted wood, one step away from leaving the bookshop and this whole mess behind. (Leaving Aziraphale behind, too?)

The clock ticked, Aziraphale cried, Crowley breathed. When his eyes opened, so did the door.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale was sobbing now, Crowley could hear it. He wouldn't turn around to see as well. "Will you come back??!" The panic in his voice broke the demon's heart. He wondered that Aziraphale couldn't hear it shatter into pieces.

"I always come back to you, angel." 

The next thing the angel knew was that there was a rush of air and the only other being he wanted to be with had vanished to leave him alone once more.


	4. Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, the next one is gonna be longer again, but I didn't know where else to cut it.
> 
> After the last conversation didn't go exactly well, I thought we'd go and take a look at what's going on in Crowley's head now, shall we?
> 
> Lyrics are from "Unsaid Emily" from Julie and The Phantoms (altered).  
> Thanks to the betas and sorry for forcing deadlines on you.
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone, I hope you enjoy it, comments are love:)

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

_Silent days, mysteries and mistakes_

_Who'd be the first to break?_ _Guess we're alike that way_

_He said, I said - conversations in my head_

_And that's just where they're gonna stay forever_

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

To hem and haw.

Crowley was a specialist hemmer and hawer. His hemming was terrific, his hawing excellent, and all in all he had fantastic expertise in everything concerning the art of equivocation. He was a demon, after all. Not actually doing what you're told was part of the basic skill set (except for when you were told what to do by your Headoffice, naturally).

That was one reason why he loved sleep so much. Nothing better than sleeping for a century in order to prevent having to live your life. (And his life had the tendency to fall apart when he was awake.)

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was really good at pretending to be an expert in hemming and hawing. He liked to appear that way, and he usually succeeded, to everyone that wasn't such a professional as Crowley (professional knower of hemming and hawing and professional knower of Aziraphale). Aziraphale _did_ things. He did things without thinking them through, and then he wavered over it afterwards, puzzling his head and losing his sleep (if the angel would make a habit of sleeping, that was) over stuff he couldn't change anymore anyways. That was not hemming and hawing. That was just plain old stupid fussing.

Crowley didn't feel like coping with any of that now. He would be torturing himself enough, he really didn't need to add to his misery by watching Aziraphale worrying and pretending not to worry and fussing and pretending not to fuss.

Being with Aziraphale had definitely improved his patience towards bullshit over the centuries, but there was only so much a demon could take.

He slammed the door of his bedroom behind him, pleased by the satisfying echo that dissolved in the dark silence. He loved doors. They made the outside world stop. Pity he couldn't just do the same to his brain. Just close a door and keep all the uninvited thoughts out, Aziraphale's pleading voice in his ears.

_Everything will be fine, dear. Haven't we been happy until now, dear? Nothing has to change, dear. We can still be together, can't we, dear? We'll find a way, dear. Everything's fine, dear. Everything's tickety-boo._

_Tickety-_ fucking _-boo._

He was surprised by how well the angel lied. For a moment he had almost believed it himself, had seen an image of the two of them, snuggled together on the sofa, laughing - the them that did not exist outside of Aziraphale's words. _  
_

That millisecond of a spark of hope did only make it more painful as reality extinguished it.

Crowley felt the guilt rise within him as shreds of their fight echoed in his ears.  
Why wasn't friendship good enough? Why wasn't friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn't it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, because they chose to do so. Bound not by physical attraction, worldly goods or a sense of duty. Only by the shared agreement to keep going, to stay by each other's side - the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified.

He knew he should be satisfied with that. He knew he couldn't be.

He'd noticed that heat before. The tickling of little shocks when he came near the angel's skin. They'd never touched long enough for it to become any more intense than an actually quite pleasant tingle or surge of warmth. Arms brushing while walking on a slim sidewalk, fingers not-actually-accidentally touching when they handed each other a bottle of Merlot, Aziraphle passing more closely than would strictly have been necessary as Crowley held a restaurant door for him.

But he'd always taken it as...well, it was almost embarrassing to even think it, but he'd thought it was just the excitement of being close to the one other being you loved more than anything else in this world (and every random other world, too, for that matter). Yes, it was unquestionably and tragically undemonically soppy, but Crowley couldn't pretend he hadn't indulged in the thought that it was a sign of _true love_. His, at least. Perhaps it didn't need to be mutual to work. He hadn't even been sure Aziraphle experienced the same in those small fleeting moments.

Now it turned out that he did, it turned out that it _was_ requited, and it also turned out that the feeling Crowley had stored in his mind so fondly was not an effect of their love, but rather the sentence that rendered it ( _them_ ) impossible.

That was it. He couldn't take any more. He couldn't feel anymore. He seemed suddenly to have lost all ability even for suffering - his heart, his nerves, his brain seemed to have become numb after all this time of ceaseless anguish, culminating in this most awful of outcomes.

He felt trapped. He had been hovering towards Aziraphale since they had met, inching closer in slow motion and when he thought he had arrived after six thousand years, he found out that he was running in circles instead. For just a second they had been close enough to reach out to each other, only to be thrown right back to the beginning. At least that was what it felt like. They had millennia of friendship to build upon, yet Crowley felt more distant than they had been the first day they met on the Wall. (At least there had been a path with a destination ahead of him, then, however long it had taken to walk. It had been worth the time and effort. But what when the end just lead you back to where you started?)

And still. Very undemonic thought, but...he knew he couldn't stop walking. He would never stop walking, even if he wanted to. He would follow the path, again and again and again, even if it was just an illusion waiting at what appeared to be the end. As long as the illusion was a picture of the angel, he couldn't help chasing it.

For how did that poem go?

_'T is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._

Perhaps a heart that was broken wasn't necessarily a heart that had _been_ loved, but it certainly was a heart that _had_ loved. Or in his case - still did.

And in the end - wasn't it better if he kept this desire hidden within him, and never actually showed the angel? That way, there would always be hope in his heart. That hope would be a small, yet vital flame that warmed him to his core - a tiny spark to cup one's hands around and protect from the wind, a flame that the violent storms of reality might easily distinguish. And yet never could.

Fuck him. He should really stop developing crushes on people he couldn't touch. He'd just not thought that metaphor would turn out to be quite so literal. 

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Somehow, a new day began, the sun came up and the world was still spinning.  
The birds chirped outside his window, the traffic of London searched its way through cracks and gaps to reach Crowley's ear, reminding him that there were people out there busy living their lives, people that had no idea the previous day had borne anything special at all, anything enormous and horrendous and terrifyingly lifechanging in its finality.

The demon rolled over in his black silk sheets and groaned. This had very suddenly managed to seriously challenge the 14th century's title as _The_ _Worst Century Ever,_ and just as the thought of dealing with it the same way he had the first time formed in his mind, he sat up in bed and banished it as quickly as it had come.

That was quite enough of that. He couldn't stand the lingering scent of self-pity that burned in his nose. What was done, was done. What had been said, had been said. There was no use crying about it.

He couldn't be over. He didn't have the privilege of that option, did he?

No. He had living to do, too.

If living meant for Crowley to continue his life in torture, that was what he would do. (He'd never been into it like other demons were, but there had never passed a single day on earth without it, either. Perhaps that was his punishment for _not_ being into it.) Because what were 6000 years of helpless pining if not torture? Two million one hundred fifty-seven days of want with no fulfilment, fifty-two million five hundred ninety-seven thousand three hundred sixty-nine hours of being hopelessly, pathetically, undeniably in love with someone he could never have.   
What were you supposed to do with all the love you had for somebody if that person wasn't there to take it? What happened to all that leftover love? Should you suppress it? Should you ignore it? Were you supposed to give it to somebody else? (What if that wasn't possible? What if your love only came in that one certain shape, the one that fit precisely and only into the heart of one other being?)

He couldn't do that. He would never find it in himself to do that.

He couldn't run away from his nightmares anymore. Not this time. Usually, he would have two places to flee to: Sleep and Aziraphale. The latter, as the source of his distress, obviously wasn't an option. The other would only be a temporary delay. As soon as he saw the angel again, it would all come back, just waiting under the surface, lulling him in a false sense of security to drown him again as soon as he laid eyes on his best friend.

The only alternative was to never return.

Impossible. Unthinkable. Unbearable.

More unbearable than being denied to be with Aziraphale the way he wanted to, was being denied to be with Aziraphale at all.

And that was how he found himself in the bookshop again. He hadn't even bothered to knock, he just walked in and turned the sign at the door to _Closed_ before settling in his usual (at least slightly comforting) spot.

"Okay, let's talk."


	5. Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall! Here's another chapter. It's longer again, as promised. 
> 
> Don't want to lose myself in too much babbling again so...
> 
> Thanks to my friend for giving the plot her blessing, this is unbetaed though so sorry for that.  
> Lyrics from "Unsaid Emily" from Julie and The Phantoms again.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

_If I could take us back, if I could just do that_

_And write in every empty space the words_ _"I love you" in replace_

_Then maybe time would not erase me_

_If you could only know, I never let you go_

_And the words I most regret, are the ones I never meant to leave_

_Unsaid_

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

"Okay, let's talk."

 _I don't want just words_ , Aziraphale found himself thinking. _If that's all you can give me, you'd better not come._

But he made no comment, neither to Crowley's sudden and unexpected entry nor to the liberty of closing his shop in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. He just sighed and went to sit down himself, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"Look. I know this is... far from ideal", the angel began lamely, not bothering with an introduction. "And I'm not trying to gloss anything over, okay?" (It just happened to all sound mundane as apposed to the unspeakable cruelty it truly was.) "Neither of us wanted it to be like this. But we still have us. Just like we always did. Even better. It _is_ better, dear. Because now we can finally say it. We can acknowledge what we feel. And it can be enough, can't it?" _Please say that it can, please say it will be._ "It can be enough to know that we lo-"

 _"Don't!_ " The force of Crowley's outburst startled the angel, who broke off midword, mouth still opened as he stared at the demon in disbelief. "Don't say it."

"W-What?"

"I don't..." Crowley pressed his teeth together, the words coming out almost like a hiss. "I don't want to hear it."

"But... dearest, I-"

"Just _don't,_ Aziraphale, okay?"

Crowley breathed in. Stilled himself. Tried to, at least. What he could contain, he could control. (He didn't want control. He wanted to be able to let go. But he didn't. He wouldn't.)

"What are you doing?" The mixture of confusion and hurt furrowing the angel's brow would have been enough to make Crowley falter, usually, but not this time. He knew what he could and couldn't take. Just once, he had to protect himself. "I finally try to tell you how I feel and you-"

 _"You_ just don't _understand_ , Aziraphale! You can't! _I don't want to hear it!"_ He'd never wanted to hear anything as badly as the word he knew to sit on the tip of the angel's tongue right now.He had never wanted anything as badly as to be allowed to say that word himself. But not anymore. Not now. Not like this. "Not when I know it's not gonna change anything!", he said to Aziraphale's shocked face. "Don't you get it? It'd just make it all worse!"

In fact, it changed everything. It already _had_ changed everything. It made everything not just torturous, but unbearable. But perhaps, if neither of them actually said it out loud, Crowley could pretend it wasn't real. He was an expert-pretender, after all, wasn't he. Maybe he could pretend he could stand this.

"But...you are aware that we'll have to find a way to accept the undeniable, Crowley?" The angel's voice was calm and controlled, but the lines of worry on his face deepened, confusion transforming into held-back annoyance, frustration. "What do you suggest we do? It's bloody unfair, yes, but what good does that knowledge do? We can't change it. _Rage is not going to change it_. It's not going to make anything better, either."

"That's easy for you to say. You have no idea how it is for me, what it _means_ for me!"

Crowley had spat the words out before they had reached his mind. He hadn't meant to. He couldn't take them back now. Maybe he didn't actually want to.

All the time, he had thought this would be the answer. When it finally came to it, as improbable (impossible) as it seemed, _if_ \- this would be his chance. One thing that was his to indulge Aziraphale with. He should have known it would all just end up on the pile of broken happy-ever-afters.

For what else had Crowley to give, if that one thing he'd been created for was taken from him? This had been the one thing Crowley had had to give, a pleasure that hadn't been written or baked or composed by someone else, something that was entirely his, and his alone. It was the one thing they could have shared, instead of Crowley sitting back and watching Aziraphale enjoy it alone, something Aziraphale would have _needed_ him for. Because let's face it, he knew Aziraphale liked him around, but there was no other sensible reason for Crowley to be present at every dinner, every visit to the theatre, every night of indulgent drinking. He was keeping the angel company, he was the entertainment at best, a fondly regarded piece of decor at worst, but if it came down to it, Aziraphale could just as easily have gone about his day and enjoy the same activities without him as the habitual sidekick.  
As for Crowley himself, he depended on being whatever the angel regarded him as. He liked to go after some demonic intervention from time to time, a bit of mislead ambition here, a hint of questioningly directed greed there - it didn't take much to tempt most humans, and Crowley had always rather delighted in little acts of clever pushing than great evil plans. He would always have that, he supposed. But he had long admitted to himself that his greatest pleasure was watching Aziraphale's.

"Crowley-"

His name was whispered quietly, cautiously, empathetically even, but whatever it was he wanted to say, no words of comfort would have any meaning, so Crowley cut it off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You can't know how it feels for me, angel...not to..not being able to-"

"And why would you think I don't feel the same way?" Aziraphale's voice was still calm, but there was a hint of coldness around the edges now, a sense of hurt he hadn't been able to hide completely, or maybe he hadn't tried. "Why should it be worse for you than it is for me?"

"Because you're you, _angel!"_ Crowley huffed in frustration. Perhaps this had been a mistake. He shouldn't have come. He didn't want to talk about these things. He didn't want to have to explain his suffering. "You're a being of fucking love! I know that can be torturous, too, believe me, I goddamn well know! But I- I'm designed for lust, Aziraphale! You have no idea how it is for me, to be pining after you for all this time and now that my desires are literally within reach I still can't fulfil them. I wish..." _I wish I could say that loving you and knowing you love me is enough.  
_"But... I won't be able to stop craving more. Ever. I...I just can't. I'm sorry. It's not...-" _It's not in my nature to be satisfied. It's not in my nature to be happy._

Nothing had ever been enough for Crowley. When he was still an angel, bathing in Her love, it wasn't enough. When he fell and became known in Hell for his glorious act of Original Temptation, it wasn't enough. When he met this angel, this angel that was different from the others, that sheltered him with his wing despite just having met him, a demon, it wasn't enough. Then they became friends, started spending more and more time together, up to now where they had averted the literal End Of The World (worth being in all capitals and stuff) and hadn't been apart for a single damned day - and guess what, it wasn't enough.   
And finally, _finally_ , Aziraphale almost told him he loved him, wanted to be _allowed_ to love him, and even though denying him was probably been the hardest thing Crowley had ever had to do, he did because he knew it still wouldn't be enough. He wished it were... _God_ , he wished it were. But he knew himself and he wasn't going to pretend, not even for Aziraphle's sake. He was done hiding, done denying what he wanted. It would just lead to someone being hurt eventually. It really left you weary to be always running from who you really are.

Sure, Aziraphale seemed to think he loved him. Perhaps he actually did, in his way. But angelic love was selfless, warm, gentle. He liked all those things about Aziraphale. He liked his kindness, his compassion, his tenderness, his softness.  
Yes, he believed Aziraphale loved him, but he was just as sure the angel had no idea what he was getting himself into. Aziraphale's picture of love was that of angelic love, that of his own love, love that was like a warm summer breeze, light and fresh, a soft swirl that flooded through you in pleasant waves. Crowley's love was love well enough, but it was a sort of love Aziraphale could hardly be prepared for. His love was intense, all-encompassing, roaring. It wasn't selfless, ruthlessly digging its path to leave ruin in its wake, an unstoppable flood that came to take and to consume. Crowley had known to keep it at bay behind a dam, build of bricks formed from sheer willpower. But once it was released, he wasn't going to be able to control it anymore.

Perhaps it was best this way. Perhaps that was why the universe had decided not to let him, not to even give him the chance, not to risk him being swept away and dragging Aziraphale along in his wake. Yes, maybe it was for the best. For Aziraphale. He could find someone else, someone better, someone who could love him the way he deserved to be loved...

He'd found that sometimes it was necessary to let things go, simply for the reason that they were too heavy.

"So this is how you justify yourself, is it?" There. There was the coldness now. No more hiding. It ripped Crowley out of his thoughts like a punch in the face. _"Perfect_ way to cope with this, dear."

So Aziraphale wanted to play that game now, did he. Fan-fucking-tastic.   
_Oh yes, let's make this all about me, shall we? As if I didn't know it's all my fault, as if I didn't know I'm the one who can't bloody cope, who wants too much again, who hurts and looses the one good thing in his life._

After all, rage was the only shield he had left.

"Ooooh, no! Don't you 'dear' me, _angel!"_

He could see how the attack struck home, the hurt on Aziraphale's face almost palpable. He had refused the term of endearment. Crowley _never_ refused those. But then, he also never said 'angel' as if it were an insult. The hurt transformed into anger in front of the demon's eyes and he didn't have to wait long for it to hit him.

"I'm not the one who's running away, leaving me alone with this...this _thing_ hanging between us!", Aziraphale snapped forcefully, the hard line of his mouth turning into something even worse and utterly unfamiliar - the smug grimness of a mocking smirk. "But I guess that's just how your kind deals with problems", he said gloomily, fixing Crowley with flashing eyes, "isn't it, _demon?"  
_

"Oh, we're going down that road now, are we?" (He knew he'd brought it up himself, the whole angel-versus-demon shit. But it was one thing for him to see himself that way. Having to hear it from Aziraphale was something else entirely.) "Took you long to bring out the big bad D-word. Good job, angel!", he mocked in an attempt to hide how deep the angel's words had struck. "We can't let the vile evil demon forget his place after all, can we? Always too greedy, always wanting more than he can have, never satisfied, with anything. I get it."

He breathed heavily, waiting for Aziraphale to scream back at him, but was thrown slightly off course for a second by the sudden look of confusion on the angel's face.

"That wasn't my point _at all-"_

"Well, I'm begging your almighty pardon, then." Crowley knew he should stop, he knew Aziraphale didn't mean to hurt him further and deep inside he was aware that he would regret hurting the angel in turn later, but that was all in the background, overshadowed by too much anger and numb pain to stop the nasty flow of words. "Because to me, it sounded as if you were accusing me of being a bad friend after I've been literally hanging around _nowhere else_ but here in this stupid bookshop with you and your dusty shelves and your tartan patterns-"

"I never asked you to do any of that, did I?" Aziraphale had clenched his hands into fists and there was the glistening of tears in his eyes. (Angry or sad tears? Probably both.) "But if you must be so perfectly horrid, fine. Because I asked you here to _talk,_ not to let myself be insulted. If that's not what you came for I'd rather you left me alone with my _dusty shelves_ and _tartan patterns."_

He paused, waited for Crowley to react, expected him to turn around and rush out, maybe even snap his fingers and miracle himself right back to his flat, into his bed where he could sleep for who knew how long and leave him to deal with this on his own.

But he didn't. In fact, he didn't move at all.

Aziraphale sighed.

"Or", he pinched the back of his nose between his thumb and index finger in frustrated exhaustion, "you let me finish my sentence, because then you would _know_ that I _don't care_ about you wanting more. Heaven's, I'm _glad_ you want more, because so do I! I-" He trailed off and Crowley could watch how he gathered himself, swallowed his agitation. When the angel continued, his voice was warm and steady again. "I know you're suffering. A great deal as you don't even try to hide it. And that's fine. If you need time, please, take it. If you need space, alright." Aziraphale fixed him with calm eyes, but a gaze so intense Crowley couldn't have looked away if he tried. "But don't you even think for a second you can just leave and never return. And don't you dare claim to be suffering more than I am just because I'm an angel!

"Crowley... _Crowley._ You think I didn't want to touch you ever since you stood next to me on that wall?", he asked, not waiting for an answer, not expecting one in the first place. "I dream about sheltering you with my wing that first day, the warmth of you so close to me...I spent nights worrying about how that shouldn't have been comforting and yet was the loveliest thing I ever felt." He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath. "If you love me", he finished then, ignoring as Crowley flinched at the word, "and I believe you _do_ , don't you dare lecture me about angels being unable to experience lust. That's not your place to judge."

 _He thinks he knows,_ Crowley thought sadly. The anger had long given way to the all-too-familiar exhaustion. _He thinks he knows what it would have been like, what we could've had. But he has no idea._

"You don't know-" _what you want._ No, he couldn't say that. That was too much cruelty even for him. "-what you're getting yourself into", he finished instead, not the right thing to say, either.

The thoughtless sentence was like a bucket of ice water poured into Aziraphale's face. He stood dumbfounded, a series of emotions running through him, muddled, but each one distinguishable - surprise, disbelief, wonder, realisation, shock, sadness, hurt. He'd explained himself, hadn't he? He'd made his point. He'd thought Crowley would see now, he'd thought he would understand, he'd thought-

"I- I thought..." Aziraphale trailed off, too overcome by everything he was feeling right now to put his thoughts into proper words. The sentences were swimming in his head, dissolved like smoke into thin air when he tried to grasp them. "I would have expected that from anyone, but not you. Never you", he heard himself say, voice already strained with held-back tears.

"Aziraphale-"

"You don't believe me", he whispered - a realisation, not a question.   
_You really don't think I'm capable._ _Do you think I_ _ **shouldn't**_ _be capable?_   
"Of all people, I thought-"

He had never been allowed just to want things. He knew Crowley felt the same way, even worse, he seemed to think he wasn't entitled to want things, and that was awful and entirely wrong - but...it was different. He wasn't everyone's favourite in Hell, but...(excuse him for thinking it), he never actually wanted to be, did he? And besides, it seemed they hated him because of something he'd actually _done_.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was despised in Heaven simply for...existing. They had no reason whatsoever than to hate him for being who he was. And for wanting what he wanted. Food, wine, clothes...everything that brought him pleasure, even the mere act of being _interested_ in pleasures in the first place - it was all put down as ridiculous. Aziraphale, the silly indulgent fool. Sometimes it felt like all the things he wanted were wrong just because it was him wanting them.

The only person that had never made him feel that way was Crowley. Until now.

"You don't believe me", he heard himself say again. "You- Don't you want me to want you back that way? Is that it? I thought if anyone understood it would be you... I thought if anyone would let me-..."

He'd always been the only one that just let Aziraphale be himself. The only one that let him want and _have_ things, and not only didn't judge but actually liked him for it. (At least he had thought so. Maybe he'd been wrong.) No excuses necessary, no apologies. Crowley was the one making sure he got what he wished for, no matter if you were talking about a simple meal, something to get drunk with, _someone_ to get drunk with... Crowley never showed any disinclination at the idea of Aziraphle wanting anything -

_I guess I just didn't expect there to be any exceptions or borders to that._

"Go."

The demon's head snapped up.

"What?"

"You heard me." Aziraphale felt like someone else was speaking, like he was out of his body somehow, watching the scene play out before his. "Please. Go."

"Aziraphale-"

"Crowley, please, just leave. I can't talk to you right now." He knew he was doing the same thing Crowley had done to him before. He knew he shouldn't. He knew he couldn't _not_.

_I left you space when you needed it. Now you will give me mine._

"But I thought-"

"Out!"

And he went.

As soon as the door was shut, Aziraphale leant against it and let himself slide down to the floor like the tears he didn't know when they had started falling from his face - left behind with the slamming of the door echoing in his ears and three unspoken words echoing in his heart. _  
I love you, I love you, I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I don't wanna leave them in bad places like this all the time. I hope it was the last time.
> 
> Bad news, though. I'm really sorry to say this, but I decided that I have to take a break from this fic for a while. It will be continued and finished, but I really can't say when. The reason is that I watched the finale of Supernatural two days ago and am still so devastated that I feel like I can't breathe. I'm not kidding. Maybe this sounds ridiculous to some of you, but I'm the kind of person that gets really emotionally invested in fandoms and attached to characters and I feel like I lost some of my best friends right now. This chapter here was already finished so I could post it, but I know I won't be able to concentrate on anything but Supernatural when it comes to fandom for now. I apologise and hope you can understand and grace me with your patience and forgiveness. 
> 
> To all fellow Spn fans and especially Destiel shippers - You're not alone in this. Misha is right, the fandom will hold together and survive beyond this. I'm definitely gonna write a fix-it for 15X18 to 15x20 (let's be honest, there won't be much plot from the finale left when I'm done with it), so if anyone is interested in that, I'd be honoured if you give it a try in the meantime.
> 
> Until my emotions and I come back - bye, everyone. I'm sorry. And thank you.


End file.
